Pusryčiai
by jaqueline-littlebird
Summary: Years after Hannibal was convicted and shipped abroad, Will travels to Lithuania for a symposium on profiling. Lithuania has since become a monarchy again.


A/N: Written for a prompt on the dreamwidth kinkmeme. Lithuanian translations graciously provided by GoogleTranslate. Apologies should they be incorrect.

recommended music with this: _Tai gražiai gieda lakštingalėlė_ by Donis & Rasa Serra

disclaimer: not mine, no money made

* * *

**Pusryčiai**

On the flight to Europe, Will realized that he knew nothing about his destination. He had never been out of country before. Honestly, for a Louisiana boat repair man's son, Maryland was foreign enough already. Sure, he had heard a thing or two about Rome, or London, or Paris, France, but Lithuania?

He wasn't even sure did that small country belong to the European Union or not. Thinking about France, he flinched. Hannibal's cooking had been French, had it not? Sophisticated, fancy, showy, exquisite – and made of people. Will refused to think 'tasty' too, or 'satisfying', though in some dreams which he'd not acknowledge in his waking hours, he fondly reminisced those days of regular and home-cooked meals.

He sighed and skimmed his notes once more. Experts from all over the world would gather at the Vilnius Symposium on Profiling. Will was particularly looking forward to meeting Lt. Columbo from Los Angeles PD, his childhood hero, whom he hadn't had an opportunity to meet before, not even after Alana had started her new job in California. Leroy Gibbs of the Naval CIS was on the speakers' list too, Kurt Wallander from Sweden, inspectors Clouseau from France and Lestrade of Scotland Yard, and many other outstanding investigators.

Failing with his lecture in front of all those celebrities was not an option, so special agent Graham had settled for a topic both spectacular and which he had intimate knowledge of: Hannibal Lecter, the Chesapeake Ripper. The only little drawback being that he did not know what had become of the man since they had extradited him overseas all those years ago, heavily sedated, in face-mask and straightjacket, strapped to a gurney.

Will didn't even know which country and facility the psychopath resided in these days. He still did not own a TV, and rarely read newspapers. His main source of online information, , had shut down when Freddie Lounds had switched to the yellow press after the recent worldwide revival of monarchy, trying to make a career out of spying on king Harry of Canada, where she was now serving her jail sentence for lèse-majesty. Perhaps she was still lucky in a way. Had she been arrested in Romania, where they had re-installed Vlad Tepeș Draculea's dynasty, or in Russia by king Vladimir's men (direct descendant of Ivan the Terrible) … Will shuddered to think.

* * *

The symposium was days away. Jack had all but ordered Will to take some days off to relax. Besides (and probably more importantly, considering the newest gouvernment budget shutdown), mid-week flights were cheaper.

Accordingly, human resources had not booked him into one of the international hotel chains, but a cheaper family-run place. Thankfully, a public transport ticket was included in the symposium admission, as it occured to Will that he didn't have any local curreny with him. (Euros? Rubles? Or whatever did they even use here?) After two hours of struggling with trolleybus and other bus lines' timetables in a foreign language, and dragging his suitcase through narrow streets of cobblestone between renaissance houses, Will was grateful to fall into bed after checking in without eating dinner, and slept off the jetlag.

This night's nightmare was different from the usual ravenstags and mutilated corpses, instead featuring a plane crash site in snowy mountains, a few survivors huddling in the cold and feeding on less fortunate travellers' corpses. Jack's head and torso lay there, half-buried in the snow, empty eyes staring at the sky.

Will found himself gnawing on Brian Zeller's frozen arm. He couldn't move, and his feet were numb. Turning around, he nearly bumped into Hannibal Lecter, shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows, hands buried in Dr Chilton's abdominal cavity. „I brought you a warm meal" mouthed the cannibal and pulled the liver out of dying Frederick. Still warm from body heat, the organ was steaming in the winter air. Hannibal held it out invitingly, smiling like the sun.

Will woke up shivering. Disoriented (Where were his dogs?), he fumbled around in the dark, finding neither torch nor lamp and crashing something. Finally, he fished the duvet back up from the floor, buried himself under it and slept like dead for the rest of the night.

In the morning, he dragged himself out of bed and to the toilet at the one end of the corridor, noticing a small queue of people lined up for the bathroom at the other end.

With a bit more aftershave on than usual, Will went downstairs to eat breakfast before showering. A greying woman who did not speak English – probably the owner – served him very thin coffee and a selection of breakfast foods: buckwheat pancakes with jelly, hot rice pudding, and a cream-based raspberry soup. Not a single sausage to be had; not even scrambled eggs. As rich as the sweet dishes were, Will decided to hit town in search of something more satisfying.

His resolve was strengthened when the owners' daughter, a slender blond woman with a sour mien, almost fluent in English but speaking with a heavy, somewhat familiar accent, informed him he would have to pay the bedside lamp.

* * *

Vilnius old town was as puzzling as exotic. In some ways, it reminded Will of New Orleans' Quartier Latin, tourist-centered with many little shops, bars and restaurants. He was amazed at how many of the shops specialized in amber in some form: jewellery, ship models and knickknacks, even chess sets and dice. Perhaps he should buy something for Beverly, who was sitting his dogs. But not before breakfast.

After long, aimless wandering, he pulled himself together and talked to the shopassistant at one rare snack bar that advertised they were accepting credit cards. With a piercing glare the man informed him that no, there were no international fastfood franchises anywhere nearby – outlawed on king's orders –, but traditional Lithuanian food was nourishing and very healthy.

Cringing, Will bought two random sandwiches. He sat down on a bench in a public park along a creek, watching the change of guards by the front gates of a large white building complex (probably the palace if they had a king here), and unpacked his purchase. Rye bread with lard, and more rye bread with sliced aspic. He wrapped them back up and sighed.

The bench's back creaked, someone leaning over him. „Hello, Will." The voice was deep and slightly rough, as from a secret smoking habit, and distressingly familiar. The profiler looked up into a pair of amber eyes and froze.

„Welcome to Lithuania. It has been a while, has it not? You never wrote. Some people would consider that rude."

Surreptitiously, Will's fingers moved towards his gun holster. Which of course was back in Wolf Trap. He was not an air marshal, and much less possessed a license here.

Dr Lecter noticed the movement. „I assure you, you are quite safe in my company."

Will's guts hurt. The last time they had met, the psychopath had very nearly killed him. In any case, the man needed to be arrested and safely locked up. Perhaps if he could get the attention of those guardsmen by the palace gates? Provided some of them spoke English.

„I interrupted your brunch. Please, do continue. Afterwards, if you would like, I could show you some sights. The arts museum perhaps? Or the old castle? And I'd love to have you for dinner."

Lecter sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose. „I would ask you to stay downwind though, if it's not too much of a hassle. That unfortunate aftershave."

Was the man completely delusional? The profiler now took stock of the criminal before him. Hannibal looked refined as ever, though dressed casually in pressed slacks and polo shirt in the summer sun. His face and muscular arms were deeply tanned; he could not have been in jail or asylum for quite a while. Will noticed narrow faded scars on the wrist not covered by a golden watch. Mementos of restraints? Quite possibly.

The former doctor placidly endured the scrutiny. His hair, mostly grey now, was neatly trimmed, and he smelled faintly of expensive cologne. This was not the appearance of a man on the run. The guardsmen in the background by the palace gate, by contrast, looked antsy now, some messengers running to and fro, and more and more policemen joining (if Will interpreted those guys in the other set of uniforms with 'policija' on them correctly).

„In case you're wondering how anybody can be tanned in these parts, I have only recently returned from the Côte d'Azure. The race in Monte Carlo, meeting people – well, it's the place to be that time of year. Brought some nice rosé you will enjoy."

The palace guards in Will's line of sight appeared outright distressed now, and police cars were arriving, some driving by, some officers getting out, starting to survey the area. Had the Ripper perhaps struck again? In the palace, of all places? Hannibal did not look back there, but tensed gradually.

„Will? William? Please, say something."

„You need to be stopped."

„Pardon?"

„Hannibal, I have forgiven your attack on me; you are not sane, so not responsible. But I can't allow you to run free."

„You really don't keep up with the news, do you?"

Instead of an answer, Will launched himself at the psychopath and tackled him, while screaming for the police at the top of his lungs.

Seconds later, Will was on the ground himself, immobile in a chokehold. Why was he surprised? The Chesapeake Ripper had often killed with bare hands. Hell, he had seen Lecter's study after the fight to the death with Tobias Budge, Hannibal coming out with barely a scratch.

„My little mongoose." There was a smile in that voice. „You have been slacking. Really, I should get you started on some healthy exercise. I do much more sports these days myself than I had the time to do back then in Baltimore. Can't have Volodya being the only one with a black belt, can we? I've even picked up on swordfighting."

Will struggled, and yelled for help some more. The chokehold tightened. This might be the end, but while his vision dimmed, he heard footsteps arriving fast. If those were the police, his death wouldn't be for naught.

A babble of voices, and Will found himself hauled up roughly while gasping for air, his arms manhandled back and cuffed behind his back, his whole body being patted down and pockets searched. This wasn't right. Panic rose. „FBI! I'm Will Graham, FBI. Arrest – arrest – killer … the Ripper … get him ..."

„Breathe, Will. In – out. In – out."

No! Lecter was standing amidst the police- and guardsmen, unperturbed and unarrested. Will understood nothing from the din of voices around him, until one of the law enforcers turned to Lecter (very deferently) with a question.

„Amerikos agentas. Ne problema, tiesiog jį suimti."

The officer ... saluted? Will was speechless as they dragged him away. In the police car, he cried bitter tears. He was being framed again.

* * *

In his windowless small cell, Will learned to tell the passing of the days by the frequency of light on and off, meals being served, the bucket being emptied and the water pitcher refilled. Nobody spoke to him. No interrogation, no lawyer, nobody from the embassy. Would he be reported missing when his hotel reservation would run out? He doubted it. Perhaps after some weeks, if Beverly should grow tired of the dogs, or Jack had another case. After three days, he gave up keeping track.

Some days later unaccounted for, two jailers dragged Will out and to the shower room. They tossed him a new bar of soap (something mild and unperfumed from France with almond oil, the wrapping advertised), and watched while he soaped up and rinsed (with dreadfully cold water). Judging from their laughter, they made the expected 'dropped the soap' jokes, but they did not harrass him. Brought so low, he was grateful. They handed him a fresh clean prison jumpsuit (dark grey here, not orange, he registered dimly), cuffed him and escorted him outside to a waiting limousine with darkened panes.

Nobody in the car spoke. Only when stopping at the end of the ride, the suit-clad man to Will's right took off his sunglasses and addressed him: „We are at the palace, agent Graham. The king will recieve you in audience. You will be very respectful and not cause us any trouble, or there will be hell to pay."

Will was not sure he wanted to protest, he was so grateful to be out of solitary confinement, but he just had to state his innocence: „Sir, excuse me, I am not an agent. True, I'm with the FBI, but ..."

„Shut up! Idiotas."

Will did.

* * *

They led him to a study, tastefully furnished with bookshelves all around, and chained him to a heavy solid wood chair. „Remember: behave!"

Will nodded. The agents (or whatever they were) left, leaving the key behind on the desk, a little out of Will's reach. He swallowed the urge to shuffle the chair over there and try to grab the thing to free himself. What would he do next? Run from the palace in prison garb? No, surely seeing the king (whom Lecter had not murdered then after all, thankfully) was his best chance at explaining the situation and regaining his freedom.

A door opened, and in strode – doctor Hannibal Lecter, bright and chipper, today clad in something like a dress uniform. Will's jaw dropped.

The murderer stood before the helpless man, cupping his face with both hands. They were calloused.

„Hello again, Will. Welcome to my palace. I trust you have cooled down by now."

Silence. Will was truly helpless now, delivered on a silver plate to the psychopath. He broke out in cold sweat, and the man bent over him and – sniffed him? Inhaling as if it was the sweetest perfume, licking his lips.

„What do you see, Will?"

„You ... you ... are the king here?"

„Very good." Lecter – no, king Hannibal the First, or no idea how many-est in truth – let go of Will's face and sat behind the desk. „I knew you'd figure it out. Apologies for your prolonged prison stay. It was necessary."

Will composed himself and glared.

„Don't look at me like that, Will. My secret service screened your notes. You were going to slander my name on the very symposium I had arranged to bring you here. Of course I could not allow that to happen."

Wait. What?

„One Dr Watson spoke in your place. Charming fellow. An avid blogger; you may have heard of him. No? Pity – I should introduce you on occasion. He is a fellow former surgeon, cooperating with a gifted profiler who is afflicted with the Asperger syndrome. I quite enjoyed our conversation."

Will didn't really pay attention. His head swam, and his mouth was dry. „How ... why ... how, how is that possible? Are you really ...?"

„Ah. Still not convinced. Yes, William, I am for all intents and purposes king of Lithuania. Those are the unexpected turns in life. While I languished in that inhospitable ward in Baltimore, environmentalists cleaned out a church attic in Kraków for a new bat habitat. You may know – or probably you don't – that the kings of Poland and Lithuania were usually crowned and had their heirs baptized at Wawel Cathedral ever since grand duke Jogaila adopted Christianity in 1386."

Will didn't really care. He nodded.

„Well, small country, everyone related ... As a boy I learned the family records had been lost in the Polish-Swedish War; apparently not so. They had only been moved and hidden. As it turned out, I was first in line for the crown when my country decided to re-install monarchy. Here I always used to think religion was good for nothing, but I stand corrected. As you can imagine, conservation of endangered bats has been quite the issue here in Lithuania ever since. Oh, and before you ask: My first official act was to grant myself a full pardon for all past crimes. So there is no reason to make a scene, alright?"

Will nodded, overwhelmed.

„Can I unchain you then? Excellent. You may change before dinner if you'd like; the FBI sent your measurements. You look thin."

That roused Will. „I won't eat at your table."

Hannibal – _king_ Hannibal – raised an eyebrow. „You believe you can refuse?"

„You fed me people, Hannibal ... your majesty, whatever. People! How could I dine with you again?"

„Ah, you see, but times change. These days, I employ more than one fulltime cook. I rarely have the opportunity to indulge in my cooking hobby any more, and this time of year, we eat a lot of fish. I assure you, you need not worry."

* * *

Will figured he didn't really have a choice and gave in. Dinner of course proved to be delightful after days of prison fare, even though Will felt quite awkward in a three-piece made to measure suit, and with servants puttering around. True to his word, Hannibal had mostly fish dishes served, and conversation revolved around fishing in the local lakes. Will imagined enjoying his stay here after all. Until he wondered whence came the extra gelatine in the pike aspic, Hannibal calmly informing him that Frederick Chilton had recently given up his position as court jester, due to lack of entertainment value.

That night, the ravenstag informed him starving was an option. Will did not agree. He'd try to establish a sleepwalking pattern, he resolved. Once accepted as an innocuous quirk, hopefully he would be able to reach the US embassy, or some other safe place.

Lithuania's king sent an amber chess set to Miss Katz, Wolf Trap, Viginia, and a sick note to the FBI on agent Graham's behalf. He placed some agents and some bugs and waited for mongoose's next move. Life could be so entertaining.


End file.
